


The Tide of Time

by Mechanical_Orange



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1393531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mechanical_Orange/pseuds/Mechanical_Orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He grabbed Hermione's wrist and pulled her to shore, dropping her roughly on the bank. "Well, that's not how it was supposed to work," he said with a grimace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tide of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a tumblr prompt from amidtheflowers.

The last thing Hermione saw before falling into the Black Lake was an errant card from Exploding Snap heading straight towards her. The last thing Hermione heard before falling into the Black Lake was Ron’s cry of, “Watch out, Hermione!”

It was far too little far too late.

The dark water surrounded and disoriented her; she frantically tried to swim toward what she presumed was the surface, but she felt as though she was continually pulled deeper into the blackness of the water. She kicked and waved her arms; her lungs started to burn and with one last burst of energy she reached up and felt her fingers break the surface.

A hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her to shore, dropping her roughly on the bank. Hermione coughed up a lungful of lake water and took a gasping breath before weakly sitting up on her knees. She expected to see Ron, Harry, Dean and Seamus standing around looking penitent and apologizing for their card game going awry. She did not expect to see a tall dark-haired teenager surveying her with disdain and frustration.

“Well, that’s not how it was supposed to work,” he said with a grimace. He picked up a book from the ground and thumbed through the pages quickly, muttering something as he read.

Hermione opened her mouth in shock, indignation and the urge of another coughing fit that purged even more water from her lungs. The teenager shot another look at her that clearly said, “Are you quite done?”

“Who are you?” Hermione choked out, her voice raspy from all the coughing.

“Hmm,” he replied. “Interesting.” He flipped through more pages of his book, until resting on a page which he read with alarming quickness. His head snapped up and he fixed her with a sharp gaze. “What was the last thing you remember?” he asked.

“I-My friends were playing Exploding Snap and a card came at me so I tried to avoid it, but I fell into the lake.” Hermione looked around. “Where’d they go?”

“I’d imagine they’re still there,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Hermione,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“Tom.” He took out his wand and pointed it at her. Hermione tensed, preparing herself for a curse. He waved it with an air of nonchalance that sent a chill down Hermione’s spine. Instead of a curse, however, she found herself no longer wet and shivering.

“Thanks,” she muttered. Tom ignored her, returning to his book.

“Perhaps I went too far,” he said softly, glancing at her. “Or not far enough. What year were you born?”

“What year were _you_ born?” she asked, finding her courage and indignation returning now that she was longer cold and wet. “And where are my friends?”

“Probably where you last saw them,” he replied. “Now, answer me. What year were you born?”

“I last saw them right here! What did you do with them?”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “I didn’t do anything to them,” he snarled. “Tell me what year you were born.”

“N-nineteen seventy-nine,” she said.

Tom released her arm and stepped back. “Seventy-nine… so ninety-seven,” he glanced at her appraisingly. “Or ninety-eight.” He stalked back to where his book laid on the ground. “That should be just right.” He flipped through the pages once again, twirling his wand with the other hand.

“Are you going to tell me what in Merlin’s name is going on?”

“Nothing to concern yourself over,” he said. “When I’ve figured it out I’ll send you back after performing a quick memory charm.”

Hermione’s heart leaped to her throat. He was going to wipe her memory? Absolutely not. She raised her wand quickly and shouted, “Expelliarmus!”

Tom’s wand flew out of his hand before he could defend himself. He dropped his book and stared at her, his eyes blazing with hate.

“Don’t move,” Hermione said, pointing her wand at his chest. “Explain to me what’s going on right now or I’ll curse you.”

“Hermione,” he ground out, his hands in tight fists by his side. He was several feet away from her, but she could feel his anger engulfing her – a raw heat that surrounded her and reminded her of when she was a child and performed one of her first instances of wish magic on the schoolyard bully who had taunted her about her love of books and frizzy hair. “What do you think you are doing?”

“Tom,” she replied as calmly as she could. “Just answer my question.”

“You wouldn’t understand it, you stupid girl,” he hissed.

“Try me.”

His eyes flashed. “Very well, _Hermione_.” He once again picked up his book. “I have been researching the link between ancient runes and divination—” Hermione snorted. “Something amusing?”

“Ancient runes and divination? Ancient runes is the study of theoretical numbers and symbols used by ancient logicians across the world and divination is just making out shapes in soggy tea leaves. It’s ridiculous to apply ancient runes to something so patently absurd as divination.”

“Patently absurd? Clearly you haven’t been paying attention.”

“And clearly you put too much stock in tea cups and crystal balls.” In the midst of their arguing Hermione had lowered her wand marginally, completely appalled at Tom’s disrespect for the cool logic and sound theory of ancient runes.

Tom dived for his wand and shot a curse at her before she could react. She was knocked to her feet; her wand flew out of her hand. She lay on the grass, her skin burning from the remnants of Tom’s curse. She remained there for a long moment, trying to piece together her situation with Tom’s cryptic answer. She was clearly still at Hogwarts, but something about Tom’s school outfit was different. His trousers were hemmed differently, his hair was cut in a style unlike any she had seen on the boys at school and something about the crest on his uniform was slightly different. And he had asked her what year she had been born…

“What year is this?” she asked.

“Figured it out, have you?” Tom sneered. “Took you long enough. It’s 1944.”

Hermione blanched. “But that’s impossible.” She slowly sat up. “Even the most advanced time turner can only transport you back a day.”

“I didn’t use a time turner,” Tom replied. “Obviously.” She noticed Tom held both his and her wand in his hand.

“Can I have my wand back?” She stood and inched closer to Tom.

“No.”

Hermione peered at his book in an attempt to identify it. “ _Divining the Future Through the Past_ ,” she murmured. “What sort of rubbish is that?”

“The rubbish that brought you here so sit down and be quiet,” Tom said.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” Hermione replied.

He glared at her, not an exasperated or agitated glare, but one full of malice, of hate. “ _Hermione_ ,” he said. “You are outmatched, outwitted and otherwise out of your element in every way possible. If you do not do as I say I will be forced to _make_ you.” He flicked his wand towards her and she involuntarily collapsed to her knees. “Must I silence you as well?” he asked.

Hermione shot him a look of pure loathing, but shook her head.

Tom’s lip curled into a pleased smile, but Hermione found the expression terribly unsettling. There was something… not quite right hanging about Tom. She suppressed a shiver. She had dealt with much worse than some smarmy schoolboy from the 40s. For a fleeting moment, Hermione wondered if she should warn Tom about the Wizarding Wars and Death Eaters and the like, but Professor McGonagall’s stern warning about time travel rang in her mind. No, she best not say anything. And it didn’t seem likely that Tom would listen to her anyway.

“Ah!” Tom said, after a several long minutes of silence. “I see now, a simple runic mistranslation. But what’s the correct one?”

“I could help, you know,” Hermione told him. “I got an O in Ancient Runes.”

“So did I,” Tom snapped.

“But even I nearly confused ehwaz and eihwaz on the exam.”

“I believe I told you to be quiet.”

“Look, if you want to get this problem resolved quicker, than why not let me help? It certainly can’t hurt.”

Tom rolled his eyes, then thrust his book at her. “What is that rune, there?” he asked, pointing his finger at a line on the page.

“ _Peor_ ,” Hermione replied. “Er, no wait. It’s _perb_. Luck.”

“Very good,” Tom said. His tone had lost its irritation and was now slightly pleased, but mostly condescending. Hermione couldn’t decide which she preferred. “I first assumed it was _peor_ too. _Peor mannaz_ , duplicity or duplicate man.” He sighed. “But instead it’s just luck.” He glanced at her disdainfully, “Well, in this instance, more like convenience, I suppose.”

“How is any of this _convenient_?” Hermione asked. “For what possible reason could you have to summon me here, attack me, and then insult my runic translation skills?”

“Need I remind you, Hermione, you attacked me first.”

“Only because you told me you were going to wipe my memory!”

“Well it wouldn’t do to have you talking about me to all your schoolmates. If you don’t recognize me yet, then it won’t do for you to go spoiling it for everyone else.”

“Why would I recognize you?” Hermione asked. “I don’t think you’ll look quite the same as you do now in fifty years.”

“Well, that _was_ what I intended to find out,” he replied. “My intention was to summon my future self here and learn of my future. My successes and,” he grimaced, “my failures.”

Hermione gaped at him. “How could you possible think your lifetime achievements would warrant a visit from your future self?”

Tom merely grinned that same disconcerting smile. Hermione couldn’t quite put her finger on it – but it reminded her of something, _someone_ , but who? He rose and pulled her roughly to her feet, dragging her to the edge of the water. “Now, it should follow that you can return the same way you arrived. Stand in the shallows while I cast the incantation.”

“Give me back my wand,” Hermione said.

“Of course,” Tom replied. “But first, _obliviate_.”

Hermione’s mind went pleasantly blank. She blinked a few times as she took in the boy standing before her. The _incredibly_ handsome boy who placed her wand in her hand and then began reciting something from a book. He was wearing school robes, but she didn’t recognize him. A transfer student? Perhaps Harry might know.

Hermione vaguely registered the cold water swirling and foaming at her feet – slowly rising like the incoming tide – so intent she was on the boy in front of her. The boy kept chanting and waving his wand slowly back and forth and soon the water was at her waist. When it reached her shoulders the boy stopped speaking, and Hermione remembered her manners.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Tom,” he replied softly. She could barely hear him over the water gushing around her ears. It was up to her neck now, and she really was becoming quite uncomfortable. “Tom Riddle.”

Hermione felt her mind snap itself out of its daze. Tom. Tom _Riddle_.

“Voldemort!” she cried.

She attempted to move, to raise her wand, to curse him, to do something, _anything_ , but it was impossible. The water was holding her back, pulling her down; the water was nearly covering her face, but she could still see the boy on the shore; the boy who had just told her who he was.

She saw the boy’s – Voldemort’s – eyes flash and he lunged for her, fighting through the sloshing black water, a crazed look on his face.

“Tell me!” he screamed. “Tell me what you know!” He kept charging at her, even as she was pulled further and further into the lake. “Hermione!” he shrieked. “Tell me now or I’ll find you! I’ll find you, I swear!” He reached out and she could feel his fingertips brush hers, but it was too late. She was gone.

Strong arms pulled her onto the shore as she coughed up lake water.

“Blimey, Hermione,” Ron said. “Are you okay?”

Hermione rolled to her back and looked up at several familiar faces, all looking down at her with concerned and apologetic expressions.

“I’m fine, I think,” she said. She slowly sat up and took in her surroundings. Everything was how she remembered it, no mysterious boy. No Tom Riddle. “Only, I think I might’ve blacked out. I had the weirdest dream.”


End file.
